


Temperance

by orphan_account



Series: Affinities [1]
Category: Rammstein
Genre: Brief Depiction of Child Abuse, Brief Mentions of Tatjana Besson and Margaux Bossieux As Lovers, Doubt, Kissing, M/M, Paul Can't Keep His Hands To Himself, Psychic Abilities, Psychometry, Uncertainty, Work Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:33:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22796356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Paul has a unique ability, but using it on the people you're dating has its drawbacks. Though he can't seem to stop himself when the opportunities arise, and he sees more than he should've.Supernatural Abilities AU
Relationships: Paul Landers/Till Lindemann
Series: Affinities [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638910
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	Temperance

**Author's Note:**

> I love AU's where people have superpowers so it was up to me to write this.
> 
> Brief depiction of child abuse, but it's pertinent to the story. Be warned if you're looking to avoid it.

_Tatjana presses herself behind her lover, draping her arms over her shoulders, cascading over her collarbones, to rest her hands over her heart. Looking over Margaux’s shoulder, she takes in the completed canvas, her own image looking back at her. She had been posed to sit at her desk, with an open book, resting her chin against the back of her hand. Yet her gaze does not fixate on the literature before her, but out of the canvas, looking any admirers in the eyes with a light smile tugging the corners of her lips._

_“It’s beautiful, Margaux. Thank you,” she tells her lover, pressing kisses to the other woman’s temple as her heart swells in her chest. Tatjana feels overwhelmed, and her language escapes her, and she is unable to string together any sentence that could explain to Margaux how she is feeling – such adjectives haven’t been invented. “I don’t have words to describe how I feel.”_

_Margaux raises her own hands to press them against Tatjana’s, welcoming the embrace. “Nothing to say. The pleasure was mine.”_

_“Perhaps I do have some words,” Tatjana breathes into the shell of Margaux’s ear, allowing her lips to brush against the skin there. “Is ‘I love you’ adequate?” Tatjana murmurs, and Margaux turns around in Tatjana’s embrace, meeting her eyes. How long she had agonized over that bright winedark, trying to get the colors to blend just right in a way that would do her justice, and how they look at her now, filled with such admiration that it fills Margaux with a blooming warmth in the pit of her stomach._

_“More than sufficient, I think,” Margaux replies, and throws her arms around Tatjana’s neck to pull her down for a kiss, a firm pressing of their lips._

_“How wonderful it is, to be yours, Margaux,” Tatjana scarcely parts to whisper against her lips before moving to crush their lips together again, beginning to overlap in a tender movement._

_Smiling into the kiss, Margaux hums, and then parts, touching their foreheads together. “How wonderful it is, to have you, and for you to take me.” Eyes closed, they enjoy the feeling of each other’s touch, of each other’s breath, and heat._

_Their eyes drift towards the completed canvas once again, and Margaux speaks again. “And how wonderful it is, for me to be able to capture you, in all the ways for which I cherish you, to keep now and forever.”_

Coming back to the present with the snap of Ollie’s gloves before he throws them away, Paul realizes that it’s nearing time to go home. He blinks away the vision and he severs the contact his wrist makes on the edge of the painting for good measure, to make sure he doesn’t lose himself again. Ollie’s already cleaned up and put his project away and Paul still hasn’t finished what he wanted to. Goddamn it. But Ollie doesn’t seem to be in any rush to get them out the door. After washing his hands at the sink, he slinks over to sit next to Paul and watch him work.

“Wrapping up?” he asks, accompanied by the scrape of a nearby chair to perch at the far edge of the table.

Nodding, Paul’s eyes squint into what he has left to do. Cleaning the rest of the background can wait after the weekend. Paul hides a grimace; he does not want to finish this step in anticipation of the next. After stripping the veneer, he has to do to the touch ups on the paint that has chipped and flaked away, missing in the background, in the dress, in the face. He hardly wants to think about it, about how much of a pain in the ass it is to mix just the right shade, blend it in a natural looking way – but that is something that will come another day. At the very least, he's thankful he has a good point of reference for how to do so, what with seeing the painting from a first-person perspective and knowing what it’s most intended to look like – he’s good at his job for a reason. But for right now, he’s just doing the easy, satisfying part, and that is enough to encourage him. At the very least, he wants to make sure that Frau Besson’s form is finished. It seems like a natural stopping point. “Yeah. Just let me get to the face and we can get out of here.”

Working in small circles, Paul uses a cotton swab dipped in a solvent concoction to take off the old finish.

He focuses his attention on the bust of the dress that Frau Besson is wearing, buffing the grime off of her attire. Instead of a mucky tan like the veneer made it look, the gown that the woman is wearing reveals itself to be white. Already, the painting is looking so much better under the care of an expert hand. It satisfies Paul, to be able to restore this painting in a way that does it justice, that conveys the passion and adoration that Bossieux felt towards Besson, and in a sense, make sure that what remains of all of that emotion in this canvas can survive for much longer after Paul is done. Call him a romantic, but it makes him feel like love doesn’t have to die just because people do, if this painting is anything to go by.

Watching next to him without hovering, Ollie observes the work of his colleague, making nary a sound except for his breathing. Until he clears his throat and starts lightly drumming his fingers against the table and Paul takes it as an indication that he’s going to talk, and then he does. 

“So tell me something.”

“Sure,” Paul mumbles, not even looking up from the painting as he dips a new cotton swab into the nearby jar of solvent. 

“Have you – uh,” Ollie stops himself, and looks towards a far corner of the room in thought as he attempts to figure out the best way to phrase this. Raising a brow with a hand hovering above the canvas, Paul gives him an expectant look, the beginning of this question enough to make him turn his head this time. 

“What?”

“Okay,” Ollie says, steeling himself, and doubling down on his decision to ask what he wants to ask. Paul almost doesn’t like where this is going if Ollie is working himself up like this. “Have you done your, uh, skin to skin thing with Till?” And then he decides yeah, he had good reason to feel like that. 

“My skin to skin thing,” Paul deadpans back to him with a cock of his head, trying to look nonplussed despite the bewildered yet amused betrayal from the tight lipped smile that also tugs at the corners of his eyes. “That could mean anything, you know.”

“No, but like. Your specific skin to skin thing.” 

Paul knows that he’s referring to his ability. Feigning ignorance that with a wicked smile, deciding to fuck with him a little, Paul clears his throat. “If you insist – I would say I give an excellent blowjob if Till’s response is anything to go by.” Paul watches Ollie covers his face with the embarrassment, fingertips pressing into his eyes like he’s trying to grind the visual out of his imagination.

“You know what I mean! Your weird supernatural reverse psychic thing!” Ollie exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air, and it’s enough to break Paul’s façade, and a laugh rolls off of his lips. Yes, he knows what he means. Though his initial phrasing makes it sound like Paul is into something freaky, which would not be friendly to listening bystanders.

“Psychics do reads. Call it ‘reading,’” Paul murmurs, and he brings his hand down to the canvas right where he last left off. Out of the corner of his eye, Paul can see that Ollie looks like he’s on the verge of strangling him right there in the studio, which only serves to keep him amused. The revelation of his long-time friend and short-time room mate having mystical power is a recent development for Ollie, and an adjustment, for sure. 

Beginning to work on the subject’s face, he goes in small circles to get the old veneer out and see what really lies underneath all of the years of dirt and grime, to brush against what the painting first looked like upon its completion all those years ago. The surrounding areas he’s already worked on reveal vibrant color – he knows that the face is truly beautiful, he just has to bring it to the forefront again. 

Ollie eventually regains enough composure to continue. “Okay. But. You know. Have you?”

“Nope,” Paul says, narrowing his eyes into his work. The neck and cheeks have already lightened up twenty shades, revealing a porcelain complexion that had been hiding from him. “But believe me, I’ve been tempted.”

Ollie’s eyebrows reach into the middle of his forehead and Paul can see out of the corner of his eye that he leans in. “I can only imagine it’s killing you inside. Not knowing.” And perhaps he's right. 

“I’m not used to having to stop myself. I’ve never really had to. But I know that this time around I want to try doing things the normal way. Though it kinda bothers me, not to know what he’s thinking, about him and me and us.” Too many times he’s had to control himself, shoving his hands into his pockets, crossing his arms, sitting on his fingers.

“You’ve been going out for, like, a month so I would think he likes you if he’s stuck around this long.” Placing his cheek in the palm of his hand, Ollie leans his elbow against the worktable and watches Paul’s process with passive interest, considering that he does this day in and day out as well. 

Circular motions work out the remaining grime over the rest of the face, and at last, Frau Besson’s face can be seen in its truest form. It’s easy for Paul to see why Bossieux fell in love with and painted this woman, Tatjana – her image is quite striking, a person that could hardly be missed. Pallid skin, with sharp and high cheekbones, a cutting jaw, and rounded eyes that seem to beg for attention; if Paul’s visions are anything to go by, she had quite the charming personality too, and if it were one hundred and fifty or so years ago, perhaps he would’ve fallen in love with her, too. 

Paul pulls off his latex gloves and decides to call it there on that painting’s progress for the day. Frau Besson can wait until Monday. While he reaches underneath the table to put them in the bin, he explains: “I’m gonna try really hard not to break. I swear. Well. Maybe I’ll break it to him eventually and then he’ll let me. But I’m doing this like the rest of you normies for now.”

“I thought you weren’t too opposed to looking through people’s lives,” Ollie says, sounding almost taken aback as he goes to the nearby cabinet to retrieve their coats. “Trying the organic approach?”

Paul moves to wash his hands in the nearby sink, and his face twists into a grimace. “It’s different when I’m dating someone,” he says, sounding a bit too defensive for his own tastes, and perhaps, yeah, he can admit that he should learn some more self-control when it comes to doing his readings – not deliberately focusing in on finding information, instead allowing the other person to guide him to what they want him to know, just like regular people do. He’s had bad experiences before, seeing things that people would’ve otherwise liked to have kept hidden, maybe take to their graves. If there’s something that Till wouldn’t want him to know, maybe he should keep it that way. He seems like genuine enough a guy as is. If he wants Paul to tell him something, then he’ll tell him eventually. That’s so tedious though, when he has the ability to know a person’s entire life, down to what they’re thinking right at that very second, with a single touch. But for Till, he wants to do better, without being so reliant on his power to get him through. “I like him the way I have him now: by just getting to know him more naturally, or uh, ‘organically.’ It feels a bit more moral, I guess, than picking my way through his life.”

Ollie nods, accepting this explanation, hand extending Paul’s coat out towards him, and then adding as an afterthought: “I can imagine that you’re also afraid you might find something you don’t like.”

Ripping a paper towel out of the dispenser, he dries his hands. “That, too.”

“I can also imagine that at the same time, you’re curious about what he’s got?”

Paul grimaces. Ollie perhaps knows him a bit too well. After working his coat into himself and pulling his driving gloves on, Paul pauses, and then concedes. “Well, yeah. Of course I am.”

“You don’t have a good track record of not abusing your power for the forces of evil from what you’ve told me,” Ollie replies, a teasing note in his voice, and a giggle rolls out of Paul.

“Your terminology is very dramatic, but yeah, I know,” Paul says, because he does. It’s a bad habit that he’s gotten himself into. “For now, I am going to be on my best behavior.”

-

At Till’s insistence, Paul goes with him into the bookstore across from the restaurant – it’s one of his favorite places to go, he says, but he only allows himself to buy three things maximum a month. Probably for the best; his apartment has two bookshelves filled to the brim with countless publications collected over the years. It’s something that Paul finds endearing about his new lover, his quest for knowledge and learning and exposing himself to new ideas never ending. Aside from that, he gets to use Till as a personal private library. He’s already borrowed a couple of his English language books to work through in his spare time. One of the few perks of dating Till aside from the fact that he’s gorgeous, charming, good natured, hilarious, intelligent, passionate, etc. Paul feels so grossly in love, even if he’s not quite ready to say the ‘L’ word yet. But after two months of dating, he’s feeling close. 

The bell above the door chimes, which garners the clerk’s warm greeting by name to Till, and a nod and flash of a smile to Paul. 

Looking down to Paul, Till murmurs “I’m gonna be in poetry, darling,” and kisses Paul’s temple before moving towards the section with a purpose that indicates that he might have a certain volume in mind. Paul is okay with being left behind, lingering in the new releases section. While he may not be in search of anything specific, he is more than happy to look; he picks up a book with a nice cover – the cursive title laid over a background of blue forget-me-nots – and looks at the plot summary of some forbidden romance briefly before putting it back on the shelf. Not quite to his tastes. He picks up another book simply because the cover art is in Dadaist style, which caters directly to his interests, and it’s the biography of an artist that he’s not certain he’s heard of, but he wagers that the guys life had a lot to do with drinking, sex, and partying. Or whatever people did in the 20’s. Either way, it doesn’t interest him enough to keep looking, and it ends back up on the shelf as well after a couple minutes of flipping through and reading excerpts.

Deciding that he’s not really interesting in buying, but much more interested in where Till went, and he wanders across the store rounding a corner into a small niche, tucked away. He finds Till leaning over a thin novel, staring at a page towards the middle of the book. Approaching him, he gently butts his head against his shoulder.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Till says, briefly looking up from the poem acknowledge Paul before turning his attention back down on the page once more. 

“What’s that?” Paul asks, angling his head to get a better view of the words on the page.

“A book that came out a while ago that I’ve been thinking about getting,” Till says, briefly shutting his index finger in the book to show Paul the cover – a naked woman half wrapped up in a sheet, one of her breasts exposed in a tantalizing sight that Paul can at least appreciate for its artistic value. “It’s all just love poems,” Till explains, and he opens the book back up to where he left off and continues skimming the words on the page. 

“Love, huh?” A smirk grows across his face along with a rouge blush that spreads across his cheeks. Wrapping his arms around Till’s middle, he pulls him close to him, and gazes up at him with soft rounded eyes. “Thinkin’ about love?”

“You caught me,” Till murmurs, arm moving down to drape over Paul’s shoulders, looking down to meet Paul’s look. There’s a vulnerability that Paul can sense in his expression, recognized in the subtle way that his eyebrows are knitted together, those subdued sea-green eyes studying him with an inexplicable wonder, but the reason why is something that Paul can hardly decode. In a swift motion, Till gives him a long, firm kiss against his lips that sends Paul aflutter, insides twisting with affection and want for him. He doesn’t let him pull away, instead allowing his hands to travel up to the lapels of his leather jacket to bring him in closer, while Till in his turn lays the poetry volume face down on the shelf and wraps his arms around the other man’s back. Out of view of the clerk and with no other customers nearby, they happily kiss in a slow, languid movement that has Paul’s desire making him stiff in his jeans.

How is he feeling? What is he thinking? Paul hopes that he’s thinking of him, of the ways that he admires him, the depth of their romance together. What does he like about Paul? Has he ever wanted to say ‘I love you,’ before stopping himself short? He ponders if Till is considering dragging Paul back to his to have his way with him like Paul would be happy to have him do, if he is thinking about Paul’s body underneath his, and the gasps and moans that he knows that he can draw out of him. 

He wants to do things the right way, as he told himself and as he told Ollie. But he’s dying to know, and as long as it doesn’t become a habit, it can’t be so bad, it’s really just this once, and he’s been so good already for so long. This is enough justification for Paul. He can hardly help himself as his hand crawls from the collar of Till’s jacket to press the tips of his fingers against Till’s neck, and he follows the touch down deeper and deeper, connecting into the core of the other man’s being and pulls him in closer – 

_undeserving/’he’ll figure out that I’m not as good as he thinks I am’/I want him/Iwanthim/please just let me have him/don’t don’tleave leave/’everybody leaves’/’blind or ugly’/’I don’t think I’ve loved you for quite awhile’/’It’s hard, to be in love with someone like you’/scaredscared/I could love him/I really could/am I ready/couldI can I/please God let me have him don’t let him leave_

– before pulling out of the kiss, to stare up at him, and he never could’ve imagined that so much hurt and doubt existed behind such a beautiful exterior, and he disconnects physical contact so that he won’t see any more, dropping his hands away. 

He wasn’t expecting to read that. Such deep, cutting, and not to mention intimately private emotion that he’s hardly read out of anybody, set against a discordant array of memories – the two that he could distinctly see were of Till, raising his hands as he’s curled in a corner, and of Till, standing by himself in an almost empty living room. He didn’t see anything more than that, but he knows that if those images are connected to thoughts like that, then they mustn’t be good ones.

Admittedly, Paul feels guilty. Really guilty. Without intending to, and with no ill intent, he saw something that he probably shouldn’t have, something that perhaps Till would’ve never wanted to tell him or bring up or let him know. He had gotten carried away, though he knows it’s hardly an excuse.

In a silent display of penance, while also an expression of the ardor that Till draws out of Paul, he wraps his arms around Till’s middle underneath his coat and brings him close, nuzzling his head into the other man’s chest. Choosing his words carefully, he murmurs a simple statement, and hopes that it strikes Till somewhere it matters; “You have me.” Maybe it will make a difference, maybe it won’t. But it’s something that he thinks deserves to be said. 

Wordlessly, Till rests his head on top of Paul’s, and wraps his arms around the smaller man’s shoulders, and pulls him close, and Paul takes it as a measure of acceptance. 

-

“What made you want to do paper conservation?”

They both stare at Till’s ceiling as he tries to piece together an answer with a low hum in his throat. As he works on a response, Paul turns on his side and rests his head on Till’s shoulder, to which Till’s arms reflexively wrap around the smaller man. The warmth of his partner’s body and the blankets he’s wrapped up in make him feel relaxed, safe, and he loves it, being embraced in a way that makes him feel wanted. Paul enjoys the simplicity of this, of lying in bed and talking about everything with Till, whether it’s about their favorite memory of childhood in the East or the most interesting books they’ve read as of recent. It’s a change of pace to ask questions and receive the answers instead of taking them. He's learned his lesson from before, and that's already been gnawing at him. Even if he’s had a hell of a time not reading into Till any further, he’s been working on keeping his curiosity at bay for the sake of doing this the right way. Till is worth doing things the right way. Even if, admittedly, the curiosity kills him, and he knows that he’s going to be the proverbial cat. 

“I’ve always loved reading – my dad was a writer, you know. Every single piece of paper with writing on it has something important to say. Poems, stories, shopping lists, instructions, laws. Hardly anything is written without purpose.”

“Never thought about it like that,” Paul says, snuggling himself closer to Till.

“Someone writing down how their day went five hundred years ago can provide insights into the ways people lived and thought and felt, and it just endlessly fascinated me. So, I wanted to preserve documents so that we can continue to learn from what has been written down.”

“That’s really beautiful,” Paul tells him. 

Till cranes his neck to look down at the man he holds and asks him a similar question: “What about you? Why did you want to get into art restoration and all that?”

“Art is just so much more than a picture – it has all of this emotion, and movement, and meaning. I’ve always seen more than just what you take in with your eyes,” he tells Till, but fails to mention that he has an ability that allows him to delve into those elements deeper than others can. 

He remembers going to the museum with his parents and sneaking a hand out to brush his fingertips against anything that wasn’t put behind glass or cords. The things he found that were usually available and open for access were paintings, and he wasted no time in reading the content of the circumstances surrounding that painting. It’s like a book. And the book comes with an index that Paul can arrange for his purposes and desires; and the book can be anything. He wants to know how long a painting took, how many times a handrail has been touched, conversations that have happened in the vicinity of a door, he can touch it, find that information, go to it, and see it. People too – their thoughts, feelings, experiences, memories. 

“I love the things we don’t think about. The hours poured into the piece, the inspiration, what the artist was thinking while working on it. Every color, every stroke, every angle is intentional – it’s all done for a purpose.”

“How about that one you’re working on now?” Till presses, looking for further understanding. Paul is working on at least five paintings, so he waits a beat for Till to specify, and he does. “The Bossieux painting with the woman with that long curly hair? I liked that one when you showed it to me.”

“I think it’s a wonderful painting,” Paul says. “I think of how long it took Bossieux to mix the right shade of blue for her eyes. I see the smile the subject gave, and the wrinkles in the corners of the eyes – it’s all so genuine. I can feel the love from both sides, artist and subject. I want to bring that story back to life in the most authentic way possible, and hope that others can see it, too.”

Till moves his head to press his lips to Paul’s temple, which Paul receives gladly, the feeling like an electric charge against his flesh. “You’re really thoughtful. I like that about you.”

Warmth blooms in Paul’s cheeks and in his center, and his heart is thrown out of rhythm. Till pulls him closer, and Paul reaches a hand up to gently guide Till’s face to his own and meets his lips. His thumb moves in small strokes over the other man’s skin, enjoying him, feeling him, and there’s nowhere else on Earth he’d rather be than with him, here.

Propping up on an elbow, he looks down over Till, his fingertips tracing unseen patterns on the flesh. “Can I say something?” Paul asks, and his heart beats just a little faster.

“Go ahead,” Till says, meeting his gaze, looking expectant.

“I love you.”

Blinking a little, Till cocks his head. “You do?”

“No, I was just ki – _yes, Till, that’s why I said it,”_ Paul teases, voice laden thick with sarcasm. He wouldn’t say words with that kind of weight unless he meant them, and he does. It’s been three months already, and nobody has made Paul feel the way that he does other than Till. 

“Oh,” Till says, like he just got explained that the planets revolved around the sun or that snails can sleep for three years. Not quite the response that Paul was wishing for after exposing himself in this way.

Perhaps he had misread the moment? Said it too soon? Fuck. He thought that his timing had been good. Well, whatever went wrong hadn’t been his intent.

“I’m sorry. Did I make you uncomfortable? ” he questions earnestly, because the last thing he would want to do is ruin what he has with Till. He’s what he looks forward to at the beginning of his day; he can’t help but think about the texture of his skin when his hand wraps around his, or the heat of his breath when he leans in for a kiss, or his laugh when Paul says something particularly uncouth. 

“No, just, um.” Trailing a hand from his back, past his shoulder, to rest against Paul’s cheek, Till closes his eyes, brow furrowed, pulling in long heavy breaths underneath him. Confusion, concentration, frustration – the expression on Till’s face is undecipherable to Paul as he stares down at him. The hand that had been resting against Till’s face finds its way to his sternum, where the heart of his lover beats underneath his palm, a lonely rhythm.

Last month, Paul had read something he hadn’t intended to, and he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it. But even as guilty as he felt at the time of seeing it, he’s glad that he did; now he knows what Till can’t tell him, and he can begin to prove him wrong. What is it that has made Till feel so unworthy and unlovable? He knows that the reason exists somewhere in him: he saw it, pieces of it, and while Paul learned that doing this, that looking into people and seeing them, all of them, can come with unintended results, that once more, to understand what pain exists in the heart that beats underneath him, may be needed. Breathing out his tensions, he follows the connection of Till's hand against his cheek and follows it all the way down, and he’s falling, falling, and the years work themselves into reverse and he _begins to see –_

_“There’s nothing to love about you, Till.”_

_His father stands over him, looking more severe than he ever has before. His cheek burns, and tears prick at his eyes, and even if he’s not a kid anymore, hell, he’s a young man, could easily strike back, he feels so incredibly small. Till doesn’t know why he made him so angry this time, it was just an accident, a loose grip on a plate that ended up shattering on the floor. Doesn’t everybody make mistakes? There’s something different in his father, the way his face is contorted in his rage, that tells Till that he genuinely hates him._

_“You’ve always been a disappointment.”_

_Crunching the broken glass underneath his shoes, his father approaches where he is curled away in the corner. Instinctively, his body tenses against further abuse, and he tucks his face into his arm, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Tears fall out of his eyes to trail along the planes of his cheeks. When his father bends down in front of him, he fears the worst, but another hit does not come. Instead, it’s his voice._

_“Someday, you’re going to be all alone. Nobody will want you. Any woman that ends up loving you must be blind or ugly to tolerate such a hideous waste like you.”_

_With that, his father straightens himself and walks past him, into the living room, leaving his son on the floor. He would’ve preferred getting hit again if it meant he never had to hear that. While the sting of the slap and the resulting bruises would fade into nothing, what he said has never gone away._

Again, now, again – 

_When Till gets the door of the apartment open, he’s afraid they’ve been burglarized.  
The living room is empty, void of any of his and Peter’s furniture, and he’s frozen in the doorway from his state of shock. He approaches the empty space, as though to investigate as to whether the furniture is really gone, and it is, finding only dust gathered in the areas it had all had once been. Is it normal for people to steal couches? He’s not sure, but – _

_Peter. What if Peter was home while they got robbed? Till drops his keys and his bag where he stands and pushes the bedroom door open with a bang. As he looks in the bathroom and in the closet, it is impossible to miss the fact that half of their shit is gone – books, electronics, clothes. Even more worrying, Peter isn’t anywhere to be found. What the fuck is going on?_

_The door was locked when Till came in; upon checking the windows, figuring that living in a ground level apartment had caught up with them, they are locked as well._

_Calling the police is a thought that scarcely crosses his mind before Till hears movement at his front door. Rounding out of the bedroom, he sees Peter standing at the entrance, who doesn’t seem to express anything at all, when he should be showing his surprise, his confusion, anything. The hindsight in that regard comes later._

_“What the fuck happened?” Till asks, throwing his hands up, totally at a loss. “Did we get fucking robbed?”_

_Peter huffs a breath. “I was trying to do this before you came home.”_

_“What are you talking about, Peter?”_

_Raising a hand, he shows the other man his key, pinched between his fingers. “I’m leaving, Till,” he says flatly, and he crosses the space between the door and the kitchen counter to drop his key on it with a clink. A sound that always signaled to Till that his lover has come home, and now it’s a mournful sound of finality. Of leaving._

_The feeling that comes over Till’s chest is unlike anything he’s experienced before. His chest clenches, and his stomach drops, and it feels as though the air has gotten thinner. There’s something he’s not getting. He’s misunderstanding something. Because Peter is making it sound like he’s breaking up with him, and that just simply can’t be right._

_“What?”_

_“Till, I can’t be with you anymore,” Peter says, crossing his arms over his middle, trying to give a strong front over the fact that he’s clearly not interested in confronting this._

_Tears sting at Till’s eyes, and he braces himself against the kitchen counter, not trusting himself to stay upright. He feels like he wants to throw up._

_“Peter, what are you talking about?”_

_“Till, we can’t be together anymore. I don’t think I’ve loved you for quite awhile and I can’t stay here,” his lover, though perhaps not anymore, says to him, shaking his head. He won’t even look at him, looking down at the wooden floor instead. Till feels himself breaking into pieces, like the shattering of glass._

_“No, no, nonononononono,” Till sobs, and he presses his hands to his chest, afraid his heart is going to fall out of his sternum. Tears spill out over his waterline to race down his cheeks, and he can hardly catch his breath. “Peter, no, what? You can’t – you can’t just leave.”_

_Shaking his head once more, Peter sighs. “I’ve already left, Till.” What does he mean? When did everything go bad? How did he not see it? Why is this happening? Any coherency in Till has left him, and he feels beyond confused, and frightened, and everything seems like it's spinning._

_“Can we talk? What did I do wrong? Can we talk about this?” He wipes at the tears on his face, but it hardly composes him. “I didn’t know – you can’t just leave when I never knew there was anything wrong!”_

_Peter raises a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, like he’s the one that’s frustrated. Like this is all just a waste of time and energy. When he resolves himself to talk, he looks Till in the eyes and he says, “It’s hard, to be in love with someone like you,” as though it were all so easy for him. “You’re so wrapped up in all the hurt people have done to you, and it’s too much,” Peter says, raising his hands, conveying that he’s given up._

_The man he’s loved for two years has just decided to leave, and he’s supposed to be okay with that? No, he wants him, he’s willing to fight for him. “Peter, you can’t leave. We could fix this! I could be better –“ he sobs, hardly able to articulate himself over the way he’s begun to hyperventilate, before Peter cuts him off._

_“I don’t want us to be better. I don’t want to deal with your fucking issues with your family, or your self-esteem, or your feelings all the goddamn time. I’m not going to fucking do it. I don’t want to fucking deal with you and your bullshit anymore.”_

_He backs away, toward the front door, holding the handle. Pausing before he goes, he looks at Till one last time where he stands, a mess of a man. “I’m sorry, Till. But I have to put myself first.”_

_With that, he shuts the door on what used to be both of their apartment and on what used to be his boyfriend, who he leaves standing, in the living room. Abandoned. Alone._

One more – 

_“I like him,” Flake declares, setting a drink in front of Till. “He seems like a really nice guy.”_

_“Yeah?” Till says absentmindedly, picking up his screwdriver and taking a sip. Somehow Flake is always able to find the right balance between vodka and orange juice. Fuck, he didn’t realize how much he needed a drink._

_“Yeah,” Flake affirms. After a moment, he cocks his head towards Till. “Why? Having doubts?” his roommate presses with a furrowed brow and pursed lips, as he pours himself an identical mix._

_Shrugging, Till looks down into his glass and swirls the concoction with a lazy motion. It’s been stressful, recently. Not because of Paul – no, Paul is cute, and fun, and smart. They've already created so many good memories and happy feelings between them. Movies, other museums, walks in parks, late night intimacy. But admittedly, it’s stressful having to start a new relationship. To not know where this is all going, where it ends, if it does. Feeling particularly sorry for himself, he says, “I guess there’s not really doubts about him. It’s more about me.”_

_“Explain.”_

_“I guess after Peter, I’m having a hard time opening myself up again, if that makes sense.”_

_Flake nods in understanding. “I get that.”_

_“I’m afraid of being with someone, not knowing when or if there’s going to be an ending. I dunno. The whole time I was with him tonight, I was afraid to enjoy myself. I don’t want to be, like, vulnerable if it’s going to end up hurting me later.” What he doesn’t say, though, is that he just can’t imagine Paul being the deliberately hurtful type. He’s the type of guy that traps spiders in cups before freeing them back outside._

_“But I guess I’m also afraid that he’ll figure out that I’m not as good as he thinks I am,” Till expresses, because it’s true. All of the things that Peter likely left him for, are the things that Paul just doesn’t know about yet. His shitty childhood. His depressive moods. His crippling uncertainty. He may be a good enough guy to help stranded insects, but maybe not enough to stay for someone as fucked up as Till. And honestly, he wouldn’t even blame him. People like that, so full of joy and life, don’t need people that will drag them down._

_“You are good, Till,” Flake tells him, with wide earnest eyes. “You just don’t think you are.”_

_Shaking his head, he looks at his friend with confusion written over his features. “How? What is good about me?”_

_“You have a good sense of humor, you’re intelligent, you care about others, you’re thoughtful. There’s tons of good things about you. Why do you think Paul is going to just up and leave?”_

_“Because everybody leaves.”_

The heart in his chest clenches. Paul can imagine why he’s remembering these things, as they are curled in bed together – thinking of all the ways he doesn’t deserve to have Paul next to him because of what his father said, because of his relationship with Peter. And that’s just what he saw – there’s likely plenty more events that go unknown. It makes him want to tell him that he’s wrong. Because he is. _There are plenty of things to love about you, you’re a good person, you won’t end up alone, I want you now._ He loves him, he’s certain of that, and he wants Till to know that this love comes without conditions, without the fear of pain. That he’s happy to be here, with him, in his embrace, now and always. 

“Are you afraid, of what I said?”

In the smallest voice he’s heard come out of the man, he tells him, “Yes. But not because of you. I’m just not so sure that I’m someone you should be loving.”

Paul shifts next to Till, leaning up on an elbow to begin to shift in the bed. Swinging a leg over the other man’s lap, he ends up straddling him, leaning over him with one hand planted against the bed, the other feathering touches against his face, looking down upon him with warmth in his gaze. Till’s hands, almost instinctively, drift up to stroke over Paul’s sides as his green of his eyes meets gray. 

“Can I tell you something else, then, that might change your mind?” Paul asks, knowing what he wants to say.

Till nods into his touch, looking up at him with round, vulnerable eyes.

“I have to admit that I’ve been lying to you this whole time,” he tells him, though he hopes that his playful tone of voice and mischievous look gets the point that it’s not anything to be worried about to Till.

Till blinks, and a grin grows on his face as he narrows his eyes. “You? A liar? Please. What do you have to lie about?”

Straightening up tall on Till’s lap, the back of Paul’s hand flies to rest against his forehead in exaggerated theatrics, closing his eyes against the weight of his (not really) sin. Putting on the most melodramatic voice he can, he tells his lover, “No, Till. I’m afraid that I have deceived you, mislead you, bamboozled you all along!”

Hands crawling up Paul’s sides, Till gently pulls him back down as he directs, “Then come back down here and tell me the truth.”

Giggling, he comes down, planting his forearms on either side of Till’s head, making dead-on eye contact as he prepares to come clean. He huffs a breath and begins. “Remember when we first properly met each other, and I came to your studio to ask you if you had any archival folders?”

Tills eyes roll, looking left and right, thinking about the events of the memory. Paul simply can’t help but notice that he looks so endearing when he’s thinking or concentrating like he is now, or when he’s bent over the stove cooking, examining a piece of work in his studio, or explaining a complex topic. It takes him a moment then he mutters, “Uh, yeah.” Wide, expectant green eyes look up at Paul to continue.

“Oh God, forgive me, Till, but, I didn’t really need an archival folder,” Paul explains, a true thespian in the way he shakes his head, briefly touching a hand to his heart, pausing for dramatic effect. “I was just using it as an excuse to talk to you.”

“Huh.” Till blinks a little and purses his lips. A blush runs across his features as he contemplates this, and his brow furrows. Almost as though he can’t believe it. A silent moment passes between them. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Paul laughs, losing the theatrics. “I thought you were really cute, but I didn’t have the balls to say hi, so Ollie peer pressured me and then I thought what the hell.”

Trying to restrain his smile, Till looks a little incredulous. “I hope I lived up to the hype.”

“You did!” Paul exclaims, leaning down to press wild kisses to Till’s cheeks before settling a peck against the smile that has finally broken over Till’s lips. “I’m happy to have you,” he tells him earnestly.

With a breathy laugh, Till counters “Me, too.”

Closing the distance between them once more, Till seals that affirmation with a kiss. His hands rise to rest on the back of Paul’s neck, pulling him in closer; Paul lifts a hand to hold Till’s face, stroking over the rough stubble of his cheek. Their mouths gently overlap each other in a gentle back and forth. He enjoys the warmth of his skin and his breath as it ghosts over his cheek. 

Whispering into his ear, he tells him, more honest than he’s ever been before: “Getting to know you and calling myself your boyfriend was all totally worth it. _You’re_ totally worth it, Till. That’s why I’m here, and that’s why I’ll stay here.” 

“Okay,” Till whispers back. “Then I love you, too.” And Paul doesn’t have to read him to know that he believes him.

Pushing Paul off him to lie down on his back, Till crawls on top of him, allowing himself to slot between Paul’s legs, and their lips connect once more, keen on proving it to each other.

**Author's Note:**

> Psychometry is essentially the ability to derive the history of events by touching inanimate objects associated with those events. Though not only to objects have history, people have history as well, even up to the very present second.
> 
> Feedback and comments always appreciated I love you all <3


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